


O great star disappear’d

by LiveOakWithMoss



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Damaged Maedhros, Disturbing Themes, Post Nirnaeth, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-09 22:07:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1999689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, Maedhros finds himself unable to grieve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	O great star disappear’d

_When lilacs last in the door-yard bloom’d,_

_And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night,_

_I mourn’d—and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring._

_O ever-returning spring! trinity sure to me you bring;_

_Lilac blooming perennial, and drooping star in the west,_

_And thought of him I love._  

- 

 

When Fingon died, Maedhros could not mourn. 

When word came, to their scattered, broken camps, that the High King was dead, his body rent on the bloody plains of Anfauglith, consumed and sundered by flaming whips, Maedhros did not weep. 

 _One should react to such news with violence and grief,_ he thought vaguely, but when it came, he didn’t scream, or keen, or break things, or shatter his fists on the stones of the plains.

He didn’t do anything at all. 

It was Maglor who wept; Maglor who lifted his voice in mourning for their friend, their cousin, their king. Maglor, who mourned for his brother’s beloved. 

But Maedhros turned away, dead-eyed, and set his heart to stone. 

 

- 

 

Maedhros no longer slept.

He barely went to his bed at all, throwing himself into endless work, taking every message sent to him and replying personally; taking on every task that came across his desk. He helped with everything from organizing food for a camp of refugees to managing the supplies for the healers who were working day and night on the countless wounded of the Nirnaeth – and he helped the many, many new amputees adjust to their wounds and their new bodies. _I could make a whole squadron of one-armed soldiers_ , he thought, humorlessly, and organized left-handed sword drills. 

He helped the quartermasters repair and replace weapons and armor lost or damaged in the battle; he helped a soldier whose horse had thrown a shoe. He took the nightshifts everyone hated, and was called “Maedhros the Sleepless” behind his back and watched with awe by his haggard and tired men. 

He didn’t mind the name; it was a better epithet than many he had been called.

 

Maglor put an end to it, finally, seizing his brother and all but bodily throwing him into his quarters and ordering him to sleep. 

“You are going to work yourself to death!” Maglor cried, eyes a little wild. “ _Eru_ , Nelyo, for pity’s _sake_ – ”

“I am not tired,” Maedhros told him, tonelessly, and Maglor looked ready to scream in frustration. 

“Just lie down,” he begged, at last. “You don’t have to sleep. Just let your body be still, for once.” 

When Maedhros just stared at him wordessly, Maglor cursed him, and shook him, and finally, tears rose in his eyes, and he said in a cracked and hopeless voice, “ _Please_. For me, Maitimo, if not for yourself.” 

And so Maedhros lay down, but did not sleep. Sometime later he felt Maglor sit beside him on the bed, and a gentle hand stroked through his hair, loosening the tight braids.  He closed his eyes against the touch, and against the long-buried memories it resurrected. His mother, soothing him after a nightmare. His father, singing him to sleep. Dozing on a riverbank, his head in Fingon’s lap as light fingers carded through his hair… 

“You can mourn,” whispered Maglor, fingers twining in Maedhros’ hair. “It will help.” 

Maedhros pulled away from his hand then, and rage burned so hot in him he thought he might ignite. _You fool, you idiot_ – he cursed his brother silently, turning his face to the wall – nothing would help, nothing could possibly help, because nothing could undo the march of time and bring back the dead. Nothing could restore those laughing blue eyes, those strong arms, that warm heart. Nothing could return Fingon to him. 

Better to feel nothing at all, ever again, than open his heart to the pain of mourning one who should never have been lost. 

But Maglor was there, and alive, and when he stood to leave, Maedhros rolled over and caught his wrist, and said quietly, “Stay.” 

And so Maglor stayed, and laid beside him, and the even, ocean sound of his breath almost calmed Maedhros, reminding him at least that there was this one person left that he loved, that he needed, and he turned and pulled Maglor close, crushing his brother to his chest, and Maglor wept for both of them in the circle of his arms. 

 

- 

 

The problem, he realized, was that he had never prepared for Fingon’s death. He had never braced himself for the grief or mourning, never anticipated such a loss, because he honestly could never imagine a world that would allow Fingon to die before him. 

 _I am the one worthy of death_ , he said, to the unhearing skies. _You know this. I have known this for an age_. _I have already escaped my fate once. Why not come for me now? He deserved none of this. He was goodness. He was_ light _. How can this be the reward for such a soul?_  

 _Death is only a reward for the suffering!_ he cried, to the silent hills. _Not for the joyous, the good, the hard-working; not for those who rejoiced in life and brought light to all around them._

 _Who are you punishing?_ he demanded of the ashen plains. _It cannot be him. Are you punishing his people, by robbing them of a just and valorous leader? Did you wish to leave them wandering and scattered, owing allegiance to a king they cannot even_ find _? Or are you punishing me, for my sins, and for loving him too much? Is this punishment for convincing him to trust me, to trust my folly, to trust my naïve and misguided hope?_

 

 

“Weep,” Maglor told him. “Bleed off the grief. It is poison to hold it within you.” 

But Maedhros stayed cold, remained stone. 

 _Granite does not weep_ , he thought, and remembered the bleakness of Thangorodrim, and laughed like the iron chains as they swung in the wind. 

They called him “Maedhros the Mad”, and swerved to avoid him when they saw him coming. 

 _Madness!_ he thought, joyful. _That will make a fine escape_. And he wondered if his father had found it too. 

 

- 

 

His brothers found him, one by one, fleeing as leaves before the wind. 

Celegorm embraced him, hands gripping the back of his tunic tightly. 

“I am sorry,” he whispered, not saying what for, and, “We are here for you” – _now_ was left unspoken. There was a momentary flash of such agony in Celegorm’s eyes that Maedhros wondered at it. But curiosity was no longer powerful enough an emotion to compel him to ask. 

Caranthir, scarred from battle and with eyes like obsidian, crouched before him and laid out maps and plans for raids. “We will have vengeance for you, brother,” he said. “For all of us.” Maedhros was so weary of the word he could only nod. 

Curufin simply said, “It was folly,” and no more, and Maedhros had to agree. 

It was all folly. 

Amrod alone said nothing at all. Grief had long since stopped his tongue. 

 

- 

 

When news came of a Silmaril burning at Dior’s throat, the Oath dragged them forth, and Maedhros went because he had no other choice, and because he could read death in this endeavor, and hoped only that it would be his own. 

Dior fell, and so did three sons of Fëanor, and the Silmaril eluded them once again. 

And Maedhros lived on.

  

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. Opening poem (and title) from “When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d” by Walt Whitman, which one of my professors always called “the most beautiful poem in the English language.” Eh, it’s pretty good. It was written for Lincoln’s death, but I have re-appropriated it for Fingon. I don’t think that’s wholly inappropriate. (Read the [whole thing](http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/when-lilacs-last-door-yard-bloomd) and weep with me.)  
> 1\. I’ve riffed on Tolkien’s “death was his reward” line regarding Fingon, because, god, just cut my heart out, why don’t you.  
> 2\. “Leaves before the wind” is, of course, directly from the Silmarillion.


End file.
